


dull with ghosts

by Anonymous



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Angst, Baking, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Stress Baking, it's about the denny thing, oh shit izzie is baking again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29716806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: some people have drugs or alcohol or sex. izzie stevens has muffins and cheese buns.okay, so when i put it like that it doesn't sound too bad. whatever, i'm still fucking worried.
Relationships: Alex Karev & Izzie Stevens, Alex Karev/Izzie Stevens
Kudos: 5
Collections: anonymous





	dull with ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> yes, the lack of capitalization is intentional. 
> 
> i wanted to try a more stylistic type of writing, which is why i chose first person (alex, btw) and why i did the no capitals thing. it's also why this is anonymous, i want to see how people like this type of writing before i bring it to my profile. part of the reason i like the anonymous thing is that you can experiment with these things :) 
> 
> i imagine this takes place early season 3. it occurs to me that i never actually mention denny, that's what they're talking about incase that isn't clear

sometimes she seems alright.

sometimes she seems alright and sometimes she just seems...haunted. 

how can you tell? well, you just can. i can. maybe you can’t, but you don’t know izzie stevens like i do.

sometimes she seems haunted and i never know what to do. i mean, i have my moments, but they’re just that. moments. i don’t want to make things worse. 

that’s not something i can be afraid of. surgeons can’t just opt out of a procedure if they’re worried that they’re going to fail. i remind myself that day in and day out but i just can’t think of any way to help her. if eight point seven million dollars couldn’t help her nothing can. 

then one night i get a text from meredith. a cry for help. 

_ alex. she’s baking. we’re screwed. _

it’s one in the morning. of course she’s baking at one in the morning. regardless, i throw on some basketball shorts and am out the door in less than five minutes. don’t even bother responding to the text.

i realize as i drive that i have no idea what i’m doing. no plan. like, thirty seconds ago i’d been thinking of myself as this knight in shining armor but i’m probably just gonna shift around awkwardly, make some rude comments, and eat an unhealthy amount of whatever izzie’s been making. 

it’s going to be delicious. it’s always delicious.

not the point, alex. 

gross, smelly man breath aside, meredith looks relieved when she opens the door and sees me.

“oh. alex. you came.” she’s red in the face. i wonder if she ran to the door.

“of course i came.” i push past her; meredith is not why i’m here.

well, she sort of is, because she’s the one who texted me, but i digress: izzie needs my help. 

when i walk into the living room connected to the kitchen i see everybody-- and i mean everybody. callie, george, cristina, was i really the last resort?-- standing in front of the couch looking like there’s only one box left on the advent calendar leading up to doomsday. 

they don’t notice me. they’ve all just sort of got their heads cocked towards the kitchen. i look at izzie. 

she’s still in her pajamas, but she’s got a baggy apron on, too. her hair has been pulled into a loose bun that even i realize couldn’t have taken more than five seconds and she’s whisking. vigorously. 

it hardly takes a rocket scientist to know that today’s special is cheese buns. source? they’re everywhere. not quite as everywhere as the muffins had been but they’re piled precariously on the countertops and, just like i expected, delicious.

(what? i told you this was going to happen.)

“is there enough salt?” asks izzie without looking up from her whisking; well. she’s moved on from the whisking phase to what looks like some sort of kneading phase. 

“yup,” i say. truth be told, i don’t really care about the exact ratios izzie uses because she can make ten different pies crust, all with different combinations of vegetable starch, butter, and oil, and i cannot taste the difference for the life of me. all i care about is that they’re filled with pie. 

“i’m adding cayenne to this batch.” she says it entirely seriously. it reminds me of those kids in the hospital who use the same deadpan, lifeless to voice to ask if they like your drawing and whether or not they’re going to die. 

it’s unsettling. 

i look over to meredith, who flicks her wrist expectantly at me as though saying, go, alex, do something. 

maybe some other time, this exact thing could be happening and i would think that nothing is wrong because she’s just baking. but she’s haunted today. more than ever. it’s like i said, i can just tell. 

i do something. i carefully reach over the edge of the counter to where izzie is going back down to give her dough another smush and grab onto her wrist. 

“oh. i’m going to need that hand.” izzie still doesn’t look up from the bowl. 

“could you look at me for a sec?” 

“no can do. i’m making cheese buns.”

“yeah, iz, i can see that.” 

“so could i have my hand back?” 

even when izzie is being insufferable and sad she’s adorable. damn this woman. i hold my ground anyways. 

“i just wanted to talk to you for a sec. if i let go of your hand will you talk to me?”

“i am talking to you.”

“no. you’re not, iz.” i reach up towards her face, laying two fingers under her chin and nudging it up. now that i’ve done that, she’s willing to look at me. “you’re talking to your cheese buns.” 

“sometimes cheese buns just need to be spoken to,” izzie says evenly. she’s probably long since detected that some sort of intervention is going on. 

“hey,” i say, deciding to try a different tactic, “you should rent out bakery space. you’re a multi-millionaire. you could even sell shit, if you got a license.”

“i’m fine here.” izzie reaches for her mixing bowl. i don’t let her at it, instead grabbing for it and holding it to my chest.

this is the first thing i do that elicits some sort of emotion: irritation. izzie’s eyebrows furrow into a scowl and she presses her lips together. it’s progress, even if her eyes are still dull with ghosts. i smirk with satisfaction. 

“that’s right. you’re not getting this back. you know why not? ‘cuz you’re a crazy lady.” 

“no, alex, you don’t get it--” izzie grunts as she reaches for me in an attempt to recover her dough “-- i’ve gotta knead that.” 

“i knead, you talk,” i order, setting the bowl carefully down on the counter and dipping my hands in. izzie winces.

“no, you need flour on your hands. a-and you need to wash them. and you can’t overwork the dough.”

“why not?”

“you just can’t.” 

there’s a tremor in her voice and it occurs to me that this baking thing is some weird coping mechanism for her. since it’s not destructive and i wouldn’t make her go cold turkey anyways i hand over the bowl. apparently my point has been made because she keeps my eye contact, though she’s trying really hard to pretend she’s not. 

i steal a glance over at the crowd by the sofa, jerking my head towards the stairs and scowling. go away, i tell them silently. of course, i’m surprised when they actually do. they don’t usually follow my instructions, but now they’re sheepishly scuffling up the stairs with hushed murmurs and shocked looks. i suppose i’m the only one who’s gotten izzie to talk so far, a feat of which i’m vaguely proud.

“so. what was it you wanted to talk to me about?” 

i lean forwards on the counter, trying to act casual. it occurs to me that my hands are covered in dough and i wish i’d thought of the flour thing. 

“just wanted to see if you’re alright.” 

“of course i’m alright.” izzie begins to knead more vigorously. “i keep telling everyone i’m alright. why doesn’t anyone believe me? is it because i’m pretty, so apparently i can’t recognize my own emotions? huh, is that it?”

“dude. don’t pull the objectifying women card right now.” 

izzie does not have an answer for this, and she slams a fist down into the dough so heavily that some of it flies into the air and back into the bowl, sliding down izzie’s arm and leaving a trail of sticky dough in its wake like a snail’s path of slime. 

“i’m fine,” she insists through gritted teeth. 

she’s sort of got me backed into a corner. i’m not really sure what to say anymore. which is weird, because i pretty much always know what to say. i swallow.

“well, okay,” i huff out eventually. very eloquent, alex. izzie gives me a wide, snotty, fake smile. it’s so blatantly snarky and i would be delighted or annoyed if i weren’t so worried for her. “just...i still think something’s bothering you, and--”

“what could possibly be bothering me?”

“well, you’re haunted,” i explain before i even have time to properly think of what to say. izzie makes a face.

“am i full of plastic skeletons, i can’t believe it’s not blood and high school kids who like to scream?”

“well, no--”

“exactly. i’m not haunted.” izzie reaches into her bag full of flour and pulls out a handful before throwing it onto the counter. flour flies everywhere, my face included. 

“well, you didn’t let me define my terms.”

“go ahead.”

now that i’ve gotten myself into this i’ve just gotta own it. i try to channel my inner dictionary as i suck in a deep breath. 

“haunted. inhabited by ghosts.” 

izzie uses a weird baking tool thingy i don’t recognize-- sorta like a big knife, but the handle is a cylinder that’s on top of the blade, and god is this irrelevant-- and uses it to slice her blob of dough into little wedges of dough. she ignores me. 

“look,” i sigh, “you’ve heard ghost stories. somebody dies, but they have unfinished business, and they linger. you’ve gotta help to set them free or they’ll stay there forever. they’ll fade, but they’ll always be there. you know?”

izzie looks at me helplessly and, honestly, i have no idea if what i’m saying makes any sense or is a good metaphor. then i focus in on her eyes and they’re not dull anymore, not quite. more...reminiscent. i decide to keep going.

“y’know, we don’t live in a fairytale, but i still just think you need some closure, and you’re not gonna get closure with eight point seven million dollars pinned to the fridge, okay? set him free.”

then there’s the fire. that rage that i fell for. she’s in there. i know she’s in there. 

“you think i don’t know that?” izzie snaps at me. she’d been transferring a cheese bun onto a baking tray but she’s stopped, and her fingernails dig into the dough. “did it ever occur to you that i don’t wanna do that? or maybe it has and you’re just trying to manipulate me into buying you a fucking bahama.” 

“i don’t want a bahama, okay? i just want you to be alright.” it’s one of the cheesiest things i’ll ever say to her, but it’s well worth it from the way her gaze softens. 

“i know you do. and i appreciate it. but it’s not going to be okay just like that because you learned figurative language in middle school.” 

izzie, i realize, has a point, and this whole thing begins to feel silly. there is one thing i can do, though, so i walk around the length of the counter and give her a hug. push my fingers through her hair and hold her head to my chest. she giggles sadly and leans into me, and that’s how we stay for…

well. not that long. maybe ten seconds. it’s not for how long that matters. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! comments/kudos appreciated :)


End file.
